Get Your Premium Membership

Best Famous Rape Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Rape poems. This is a select list of the best famous Rape poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Rape poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of rape poems.

Search and read the best famous Rape poems, articles about Rape poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Rape poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

See Also:
12
Written by Langston Hughes | Create an image from this poem

Let America Be America Again

 Let America be America again.
Let it be the dream it used to be.
Let it be the pioneer on the plain Seeking a home where he himself is free.
(America never was America to me.
) Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed-- Let it be that great strong land of love Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme That any man be crushed by one above.
(It never was America to me.
) O, let my land be a land where Liberty Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath, But opportunity is real, and life is free, Equality is in the air we breathe.
(There's never been equality for me, Nor freedom in this "homeland of the free.
") Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark? And who are you that draws your veil across the stars? I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart, I am the Negro bearing slavery's scars.
I am the red man driven from the land, I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek-- And finding only the same old stupid plan Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak.
I am the young man, full of strength and hope, Tangled in that ancient endless chain Of profit, power, gain, of grab the land! Of grab the gold! Of grab the ways of satisfying need! Of work the men! Of take the pay! Of owning everything for one's own greed! I am the farmer, bondsman to the soil.
I am the worker sold to the machine.
I am the Negro, servant to you all.
I am the people, humble, hungry, mean-- Hungry yet today despite the dream.
Beaten yet today--O, Pioneers! I am the man who never got ahead, The poorest worker bartered through the years.
Yet I'm the one who dreamt our basic dream In the Old World while still a serf of kings, Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true, That even yet its mighty daring sings In every brick and stone, in every furrow turned That's made America the land it has become.
O, I'm the man who sailed those early seas In search of what I meant to be my home-- For I'm the one who left dark Ireland's shore, And Poland's plain, and England's grassy lea, And torn from Black Africa's strand I came To build a "homeland of the free.
" The free? Who said the free? Not me? Surely not me? The millions on relief today? The millions shot down when we strike? The millions who have nothing for our pay? For all the dreams we've dreamed And all the songs we've sung And all the hopes we've held And all the flags we've hung, The millions who have nothing for our pay-- Except the dream that's almost dead today.
O, let America be America again-- The land that never has been yet-- And yet must be--the land where every man is free.
The land that's mine--the poor man's, Indian's, Negro's, ME-- Who made America, Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain, Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain, Must bring back our mighty dream again.
Sure, call me any ugly name you choose-- The steel of freedom does not stain.
From those who live like leeches on the people's lives, We must take back our land again, America! O, yes, I say it plain, America never was America to me, And yet I swear this oath-- America will be! Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death, The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies, We, the people, must redeem The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers.
The mountains and the endless plain-- All, all the stretch of these great green states-- And make America again!


Written by Sidney Lanier | Create an image from this poem

The Crystal

 At midnight, death's and truth's unlocking time,
When far within the spirit's hearing rolls
The great soft rumble of the course of things --
A bulk of silence in a mask of sound, --
When darkness clears our vision that by day
Is sun-blind, and the soul's a ravening owl
For truth and flitteth here and there about
Low-lying woody tracts of time and oft
Is minded for to sit upon a bough,
Dry-dead and sharp, of some long-stricken tree
And muse in that gaunt place, -- 'twas then my heart,
Deep in the meditative dark, cried out:

"Ye companies of governor-spirits grave,
Bards, and old bringers-down of flaming news
From steep-wall'd heavens, holy malcontents,
Sweet seers, and stellar visionaries, all
That brood about the skies of poesy,
Full bright ye shine, insuperable stars;
Yet, if a man look hard upon you, none
With total lustre blazeth, no, not one
But hath some heinous freckle of the flesh
Upon his shining cheek, not one but winks
His ray, opaqued with intermittent mist
Of defect; yea, you masters all must ask
Some sweet forgiveness, which we leap to give,
We lovers of you, heavenly-glad to meet
Your largesse so with love, and interplight
Your geniuses with our mortalities.
Thus unto thee, O sweetest Shakespeare sole, A hundred hurts a day I do forgive ('Tis little, but, enchantment! 'tis for thee): Small curious quibble; Juliet's prurient pun In the poor, pale face of Romeo's fancied death; Cold rant of Richard; Henry's fustian roar Which frights away that sleep he invocates; Wronged Valentine's unnatural haste to yield; Too-silly shifts of maids that mask as men In faint disguises that could ne'er disguise -- Viola, Julia, Portia, Rosalind; Fatigues most drear, and needless overtax Of speech obscure that had as lief be plain; Last I forgive (with more delight, because 'Tis more to do) the labored-lewd discourse That e'en thy young invention's youngest heir Besmirched the world with.
Father Homer, thee, Thee also I forgive thy sandy wastes Of prose and catalogue, thy drear harangues That tease the patience of the centuries, Thy sleazy scrap of story, -- but a rogue's Rape of a light-o'-love, -- too soiled a patch To broider with the gods.
Thee, Socrates, Thou dear and very strong one, I forgive Thy year-worn cloak, thine iron stringencies That were but dandy upside-down, thy words Of truth that, mildlier spoke, had mainlier wrought.
So, Buddha, beautiful! I pardon thee That all the All thou hadst for needy man Was Nothing, and thy Best of being was But not to be.
Worn Dante, I forgive The implacable hates that in thy horrid hells Or burn or freeze thy fellows, never loosed By death, nor time, nor love.
And I forgive Thee, Milton, those thy comic-dreadful wars Where, armed with gross and inconclusive steel, Immortals smite immortals mortalwise And fill all heaven with folly.
Also thee, Brave Aeschylus, thee I forgive, for that Thine eye, by bare bright justice basilisked, Turned not, nor ever learned to look where Love Stands shining.
So, unto thee, Lucretius mine (For oh, what heart hath loved thee like to this That's now complaining?), freely I forgive Thy logic poor, thine error rich, thine earth Whose graves eat souls and all.
Yea, all you hearts Of beauty, and sweet righteous lovers large: Aurelius fine, oft superfine; mild Saint A Kempis, overmild; Epictetus, Whiles low in thought, still with old slavery tinct; Rapt Behmen, rapt too far; high Swedenborg, O'ertoppling; Langley, that with but a touch Of art hadst sung Piers Plowman to the top Of English songs, whereof 'tis dearest, now, And most adorable; Caedmon, in the morn A-calling angels with the cow-herd's call That late brought up the cattle; Emerson, Most wise, that yet, in finding Wisdom, lost Thy Self, sometimes; tense Keats, with angels' nerves Where men's were better; Tennyson, largest voice Since Milton, yet some register of wit Wanting; -- all, all, I pardon, ere 'tis asked, Your more or less, your little mole that marks You brother and your kinship seals to man.
But Thee, but Thee, O sovereign Seer of time, But Thee, O poets' Poet, Wisdom's Tongue, But Thee, O man's best Man, O love's best Love, O perfect life in perfect labor writ, O all men's Comrade, Servant, King, or Priest, -- What `if' or `yet', what mole, what flaw, what lapse, What least defect or shadow of defect, What rumor, tattled by an enemy, Of inference loose, what lack of grace Even in torture's grasp, or sleep's, or death's, -- Oh, what amiss may I forgive in Thee, Jesus, good Paragon, thou Crystal Christ?"
Written by Vladimir Mayakovsky | Create an image from this poem

To All and Everything

 No.
It can’t be.
No! You too, beloved? Why? What for? Darling, look - I came, I brought flowers, but, but.
.
.
I never took silver spoons from your drawer! Ashen-faced, I staggered down five flights of stairs.
The street eddied round me.
Blasts.
Blares.
Tires screeched.
It was gusty.
The wind stung my cheeks.
Horn mounted horn lustfully.
Above the capital’s madness I raised my face, stern as the faces of ancient icons.
Sorrow-rent, on your body as on a death-bed, its days my heart ended.
You did not sully your hands with brute murder.
Instead, you let drop calmly: “He’s in bed.
There’s fruit and wine On the bedstand’s palm.
” Love! You only existed in my inflamed brain.
Enough! Stop this foolish comedy and take notice: I’m ripping off my toy armour, I, the greatest of all Don Quixotes! Remember? Weighed down by the cross, Christ stopped for a moment, weary.
Watching him, the mob yelled, jeering: “Get movin’, you clod!” That’s right! Be spiteful.
Spit upon him who begs for a rest on his day of days, harry and curse him.
To the army of zealots, doomed to do good, man shows no mercy! That does it! I swear by my pagan strength - gimme a girl, young, eye-filling, and I won’t waste my feelings on her.
I'll rape her and spear her heart with a gibe willingly.
An eye for an eye! A thousand times over reap of revenge the crops' Never stop! Petrify, stun, howl into every ear: “The earth is a convict, hear, his head half shaved by the sun!” An eye for an eye! Kill me, bury me - I’ll dig myself out, the knives of my teeth by stone — no wonder!- made sharper, A snarling dog, under the plank-beds of barracks I’ll crawl, sneaking out to bite feet that smell of sweat and of market stalls! You'll leap from bed in the night’s early hours.
“Moo!” I’ll roar.
Over my neck, a yoke-savaged sore, tornados of flies will rise.
I'm a white bull over the earth towering! Into an elk I’ll turn, my horns-branches entangled in wires, my eyes red with blood.
Above the world, a beast brought to bay, I'll stand tirelessly.
Man can’t escape! Filthy and humble, a prayer mumbling, on cold stone he lies.
What I’ll do is paint on the royal gates, over God’s own the face of Razin.
Dry up, rivers, stop him from quenching his thirst! Scorn him! Don’t waste your rays, sun! Glare! Let thousands of my disciples be born to trumpet anathemas on the squares! And when at last there comes, stepping onto the peaks of the ages, chillingly, the last of their days, in the black souls of anarchists and killers I, a gory vision, will blaze! It’s dawning, The sky’s mouth stretches out more and more, it drinks up the night sip by sip, thirstily.
The windows send off a glow.
Through the panes heat pours.
The sun, viscous, streams down onto the sleeping city.
O sacred vengeance! Lead me again above the dust without and up the steps of my poetic lines.
This heart of mine, full to the brim, in a confession I will pour out.
Men of the future! Who are you? I must know.
Please! Here am I, all bruises and aches, pain-scorched.
.
.
To you of my great soul I bequeath the orchard.
Written by Carolyn Kizer | Create an image from this poem

Fearful Women

 Arms and the girl I sing - O rare
arms that are braceleted and white and bare

arms that were lovely Helen's, in whose name
Greek slaughtered Trojan.
Helen was to blame.
Scape-nanny call her; wars for turf and profit don't sound glamorous enough.
Mythologize your women! None escape.
Europe was named from an act of bestial rape: Eponymous girl on bull-back, he intent on scattering sperm across a continent.
Old Zeus refused to take the rap.
It's not his name in big print on the map.
But let's go back to the beginning when sinners didn't know that they were sinning.
He, one rib short: she lived to rue it when Adam said to God, "She made me do it.
" Eve learned that learning was a dangerous thing for her: no end of trouble would it bring.
An educated woman is a danger.
Lock up your mate! Keep a submissive stranger like Darby's Joan, content with church and Kinder, not like that sainted Joan, burnt to a cinder.
Whether we wield a scepter or a mop It's clear you fear that we may get on top.
And if we do -I say it without animus- It's not from you we learned to be magnaminous.
Written by Barry Tebb | Create an image from this poem

LETTERS TO FRIENDS

 I


Eddie Linden

Dear Eddie we’ve not met

Except upon the written page 

And at your age the wonder 

Is that you write at all

When so many have gone under 

Or been split asunder by narcissistic humours

Blunder following blunder

Barker and Graham, godfathering my verse

Bearing me cloud-handed to Haworth moor

From my chained metropolitan moorings,

O hyaline March morning with Leeds

At its thrusting best, the thirsty beasts

Of night quenched as the furnaces

Of Hunslet where Hudswell Clarke’s locos

Rust in their skeletal sheds, rails skewed

To graveyards platforms and now instead

Skyscrapers circle the city, cranes, aeroplanes,

Electric trains but even they cannot hinder

Branches bursting with semen

Seraphic cloud sanctuaries shunting

Us homeward to the beckoning moors.
II Brenda Williams Leeds voices soothe the turbulence ‘Ey’ ‘sithee’ and ‘love’, lastingly lilt From cradle to grave, from backstreet On the social, our son, beat his way To Eton, Balliol, to Calcatta’s Shantiniketan And all the way back to a locked ward.
While I in the meantime fondly fiddled With rhyme and unreason, publishing pamphlets And Leeds Poetry Weekly while under the bane Of his tragic illness, poet and mother, You were driven from pillar to post By the taunting yobbery of your family And the crass insensitivity of wild therapy To the smoking dark of despair, Locked in your flat in the Abbey Road With seven cats and poetry.
O stop and strop your bladed darkness On the rock of ages while plangent tollings Mock your cradled rockings, knock by knock.
III Debjani Chatterjee In these doom-laden days You are steady as a pilot nursing tired ships homeward Through churning seas Where grey gulls scream Forlornly and for ever.
I am the red-neck, Bear-headed blaster Shifting sheer rock To rape the ore of poetry’s plunder Or bulldozing trees to glean mines of silver While you sail serenely onward Ever the diplomat’s daughter Toujours de la politesse.
IV Daisy Abey Daisy, dearest of all, safest And kindest, watcher and warner Of chaotic corners looming Round poetry’s boomerang bends I owe you most a letter While you are here beside me Patient as a miller waiting on wind To drive the great sails Through summer.
When the muse takes over I am snatched from order and duty Blowing routine into a riot of going And coming, blind, backwards, tip Over ****, sea waves crashing in suburbia, Saturnalia in Sutton, headlines of mad poet Striding naked over moors, roaring "I am here I am waiting".
V Jeremy Reed Niagaras of letters on pink sheets In sheaths of silver envelopes Mutually exchanged.
I open your missives Like undressing a girl in my teens Undoing the flap like a recalcitrant Bra strap, the letters stiff as nipples While I stroke the creviced folds Of amber and mauve and lick As I stick stamps like the ******** Of a reluctant virgin, urgent for Defloration and the pulse of ******.


Written by Dylan Thomas | Create an image from this poem

O Make Me A Mask

 O make me a mask and a wall to shut from your spies
Of the sharp, enamelled eyes and the spectacled claws
Rape and rebellion in the nurseries of my face,
Gag of dumbstruck tree to block from bare enemies
The bayonet tongue in this undefended prayerpiece,
The present mouth, and the sweetly blown trumpet of lies,
Shaped in old armour and oak the countenance of a dunce
To shield the glistening brain and blunt the examiners,
And a tear-stained widower grief drooped from the lashes
To veil belladonna and let the dry eyes perceive
Others betray the lamenting lies of their losses
By the curve of the nude mouth or the laugh up the sleeve.
Written by Rudyard Kipling | Create an image from this poem

A Death-Bed

 1918
This is the State above the Law.
The State exists for the State alone.
" [This is a gland at the back of the jaw, And an answering lump by the collar-bone.
], Some die shouting in gas or fire; Some die silent, by shell and shot.
Some die desperate, caught on the wire - Some die suddenly.
This will not.
"Regis suprema voluntas Lex" [It will follow the regular course of--throats.
] Some die pinned by the broken decks, Some die sobbing between the boats.
Some die eloquent, pressed to death By the sliding trench as their friends can hear Some die wholly in half a breath.
Some--give trouble for half a year.
"There is neither Evil nor Good in life Except as the needs of the State ordain.
" [Since it is rather too late for the knife, All we can do is to mask the pain.
] Some die saintly in faith and hope-- One died thus in a prison-yard-- Some die broken by rape or the rope; Some die easily.
This dies hard.
"I will dash to pieces who bar my way.
Woe to the traitor! Woe to the weak! " [Let him write what he wishes to say.
It tires him out if he tries to speak.
] Some die quietly.
Some abound In loud self-pity.
Others spread Bad morale through the cots around .
This is a type that is better dead.
"The war was forced on me by my foes.
All that I sought was the right to live.
" [Don't be afraid of a triple dose; The pain will neutralize all we give.
Here are the needles.
See that he dies While the effects of the drug endure.
.
.
.
What is the question he asks with his eyes?-- Yes, All-Highest, to God, be sure.
]
Written by Thomas Hardy | Create an image from this poem

The Sick God

 I 

 In days when men had joy of war, 
A God of Battles sped each mortal jar; 
 The peoples pledged him heart and hand, 
 From Israel's land to isles afar.
II His crimson form, with clang and chime, Flashed on each murk and murderous meeting-time, And kings invoked, for rape and raid, His fearsome aid in rune and rhyme.
III On bruise and blood-hole, scar and seam, On blade and bolt, he flung his fulgid beam: His haloes rayed the very gore, And corpses wore his glory-gleam.
IV Often an early King or Queen, And storied hero onward, knew his sheen; 'Twas glimpsed by Wolfe, by Ney anon, And Nelson on his blue demesne.
V But new light spread.
That god's gold nimb And blazon have waned dimmer and more dim; Even his flushed form begins to fade, Till but a shade is left of him.
VI That modern meditation broke His spell, that penmen's pleadings dealt a stroke, Say some; and some that crimes too dire Did much to mire his crimson cloak.
VII Yea, seeds of crescive sympathy Were sown by those more excellent than he, Long known, though long contemned till then - The gods of men in amity.
VIII Souls have grown seers, and thought out-brings The mournful many-sidedness of things With foes as friends, enfeebling ires And fury-fires by gaingivings! IX He scarce impassions champions now; They do and dare, but tensely--pale of brow; And would they fain uplift the arm Of that faint form they know not how.
X Yet wars arise, though zest grows cold; Wherefore, at whiles, as 'twere in ancient mould He looms, bepatched with paint and lath; But never hath he seemed the old! XI Let men rejoice, let men deplore.
The lurid Deity of heretofore Succumbs to one of saner nod; The Battle-god is god no more.
Written by Emanuel Xavier | Create an image from this poem

WARS and RUMORS OF WARS

 “Ye shall hear of wars and rumors of wars;
see that ye not be troubles;
all these things must come to pass, but the end is not yet”
-Matthew 24:6

1.
I escape the horrors of war with a towel and a room Offering myself to Palestinian and Jewish boys as a ‘piece’ to the Middle East when I should be concerned with the untimely deaths of dark-skinned babies and the brutal murders of light-skinned fathers 2.
I’ve been more consumed with how to make the cover of local *** rags than how to open the minds of angry little boys trotting loaded guns Helpless in finding words that will stop the blood from spilling like secrets into soil where great prophets are buried 3.
I return to the same spaces where I once dealt drugs a celebrated author gliding past velvet ropes while my club kid friends are mostly dead from an overdose or HIV-related symptoms Marilyn wears the crown of thorns while 4 out of the 5 weapons used to kill Columbine students had been sold by the same police force that came to their rescue Not all terrorists have features too foreign to be recognized in the mirror Our mistakes are our responsibility 4.
The skyline outside my window is the only thing that has changed Men still rape women and blame them for their weaknesses Children are still molested by the perversion of Catholic guilt My ex-boyfriend still takes comfort in the other white powder- the one used solely to destroy himself and those around him Not the one used to ignite and create carnage or mailbox fear 5.
It is said when skin is cut, and then pressed together, it seals but what about acid-burned skulls engraved with the word ‘******’, a foot bone with flesh and other crushed body parts 6.
It was a gay priest that read last rites to firefighters as towers collapsed It was a gay pilot that crashed a plane into Pennsylvania fields It was a gay couple that was responsible for the tribute of light in memory of the fallen Taliban leaders would bury them to their necks and tumble walls to crush their heads Catholic leaders simply condemn them as perverts having offered nothing but sin ***** blood is just rosaries scattered on tile 7.
Heroes do not always get heaven 8.
We all have wings .
.
.
some of us just don’t know why
Written by Rudyard Kipling | Create an image from this poem

Natural Theology

  Primitive
I ate my fill of a whale that died
 And stranded after a month at sea.
.
.
.
There is a pain in my inside.
Why have the Gods afflicted me? Ow! I am purged till I am a wraith! Wow! I am sick till I cannot see! What is the sense of Religion and Faith : Look how the Gods have afflicted me! Pagan How can the skin of rat or mouse hold Anything more than a harmless flea?.
.
.
The burning plague has taken my household.
Why have my Gods afflicted me? All my kith and kin are deceased, Though they were as good as good could be, I will out and batter the family priest, Because my Gods have afflicted me! Medi/Eval My privy and well drain into each other After the custom of Christendie.
.
.
.
Fevers and fluxes are wasting my mother.
Why has the Lord afflicted me? The Saints are helpless for all I offer-- So are the clergy I used to fee.
Henceforward I keep my cash in my coffer, Because the Lord has afflicted me.
Material I run eight hundred hens to the acre They die by dozens mysteriously.
.
.
.
I am more than doubtful concerning my Maker, Why has the Lord afflicted me? What a return for all my endeavour-- Not to mention the L.
S.
D! I am an atheist now and for ever, Because this God has afflicted me! Progressive Money spent on an Army or Fleet Is homicidal lunacy.
.
.
.
My son has been killed in the Mons retreat, Why is the Lord afflicting me? Why are murder, pillage and arson And rape allowed by the Deity? I will write to the Times, deriding our parson Because my God has afflicted me.
Chorus We had a kettle: we let it leak: Our not repairing it made it worse.
We haven't had any tea for a week.
.
.
The bottom is out of the Universe! Conclusion This was none of the good Lord's pleasure, For the Spirit He breathed in Man is free; But what comes after is measure for measure, And not a God that afflicteth thee.
As was the sowing so the reaping Is now and evermore shall be.
Thou art delivered to thine own keeping.
Only Thyself hath afflicted thee!
12